The Picnic
by Miss Dasti
Summary: Hermione Granger and Lucius Malfoy find themselves on a picnic. Together. Alone. How strange. One-shot


**A/N** : This is my first one-shot, lots of smut ahead and no plot, so enjoy!

* * *

"So, Granger… tell me about your hypothesis."

Only Draco Malfoy could make such a question sexual. Hermione scowled at him and wondered if _this_ ―this exploitation of her research as some sort of tool to shamelessly flirt―was the straw to break the camel's back.

Hermione had been very open-minded when it came to taking nearly all of the same Uni coursework as Draco. After all, not many wizardfolk go on to higher education, and she and Draco had been two of about five students who'd opted to get their NEWTS the year following the War. During that difficult time, she'd come to―well, not _like_ him exactly, but tolerate him. He was very much like Ron, in her opinion, and if not for the family feud between them she imagined the two would be fast friends.

It hadn't been an issue when she and Draco had found themselves paired up on several research projects this semester. After all, they were upperclassmen now, a rare breed, and working together was an expected part of the experience.

But then there came the flowers. The first one had shaken her a little, to be honest. She'd gone to meet Draco at a grungy little coffee shop near campus to compare notes on their most recent lecture, and he'd arrived dressed rather better than usual and toting along a single yellow rose.

 _Yellow rose_ , she'd thought, as he'd casually handed it to her and told her she'd look quite lovely if she did some stuff to her hair in a mirror. _Friendship. Yellow is friendship._ She doubted he knew (or cared about) the meanings behind flower offerings. This was the first real "move" Draco had put on her, and of course he'd followed it up with a slight to her appearance. It was only natural for a Malfoy to punctuate sentences with barbs. She told him her hair was perfectly fine as-is, but accepted the flower, and the evening progressed normally from there.

But it became habitual. Draco began bringing her a flower every time they met to study, or run an experiment, or do research (always a yellow rose, poor bloke, he probably thought it looked closest to gold and that colour was a natural Malfoy attractant). Hermione had no difficulty accepting them: they were, after all, friendship flowers, and more than once she'd dropped the "I appreciate our friendship" line which unfortunately he seemed to understand as progress.

One morning―the same morning she found herself somehow on a date with Draco Malfoy―after finally being let out of a soul-sucking lecture on the history of wormwood, Hermione had been marching across campus lawn directly for the disapparation point, when Draco caught up to her in a rush.

"Granger," he insisted on calling her, even though she'd long since moved on to 'Draco' with him, "Merlin, you move fast―god―okay, I have those latest experimental transfig research notes. Would you like to make copies?"

She honed into this trap like a rat scenting cheese. "The _most_ recent ones? For Dr. Civoditch? How do you have even more recent notes than me?!"

Draco smirked in a way that said he was enjoying being in possession of something she wanted. "He let me sit in on one of his experiments and take notes. I dog-sat for him the last three weekends, so he thought it was a good way to repay me," he explained, as though this were an equal exchange. At the expression on Hermione's face, Draco scowled. "He has a dozen malamutes, Granger."

She burst out laughing at the mental image and only just glimpsed the look of appreciative hunger on Draco's face at her reaction. He'd cleared it away as soon as her laughter died out.

"I've left them at the manor," Draco went on (Hermione caught a sudden whiff of subterfuge, which smelled distinctly like Draco's cologne), "but we could go there and review the papers over lunch, it'll give you some time to copy them down―say, over a picnic?"

She froze. Oh good Merlin, she should have been much more obvious with the _I–only–want–to–be–acquaintances_ thing. Draco knew her schedule pretty well by now; he knew she set Tuesday mornings aside to re-highlight her planner and dust her flat. He knew she would be completely free to take him up on his offer.

"I…" she wanted to turn him down. He was basically bribing her for lunch, after all. But looking up into that eager face, so very different from the ugly schoolyard bully she'd once seen him as, she found herself saying, "All right. That sounds… lovely, Draco. Let me just drop off my bag and we'll go to your… manor."

* * *

The yellow roses made sense when Draco led Hermione out to their picnic spot.

Hermione had been spared going _inside_ the manor: Draco appariated them directly into the gardens, a few feet away from a very inviting, very premeditated picnic spread. Actually, The whole thing was beautifully done: the blanket and the food already set up and laid out under anti-insect charms, as if he'd been planning this for quite some time.

And they were surrounded by rosebushes. Yellow roses.

In hindsight, Hermione should have just asked for the notes and left straightaway, but she couldn't, not in good conscious. Effort had been put into this―into _her_ , something that never really happened before. And Draco was a decent guy, funny when he wanted to be, even pleasant when he liked you. But he was a boy, he was still pigheaded at the best of times and his "teasing" often went too far. She was okay with their friendship, but she knew for an absolute fact that she wouldn't date him.

Still, some twisted form of pity and obligation made her accept these romantic gestures. She didn't want to turn her nose up at him just for making a picnic, and besides, none of this was honestly _romantic_ … yet, right?

As soon as her bottom hit the blanket, all of the ambiguity went out the window. Draco began to flirt unabashedly. He sat _far_ too close to her and ignored her discomfiture. He touched her arm, her hair, even her waist (she had to draw a line there and scoot away, which didn't seem to phase him either). He asked her increasingly personal questions, and not of the "getting to know you as a person" variety.

Finally―when he'd attempted to sneak a hand up her skirt―Hermione had had enough. "Draco, _stop_ ," she announced, and the word tumbled over them like a bucket of ice water. Draco sat back, looking shocked. "Look, I appreciate all of these kind gestures, but I just want to be your friend. I don't want to be anything more."

An age-old, universally terrible silence followed. "Oh," he said, his face a mask. "So when I started bringing you flowers, you just didn't realize…?"

"I suspected," Hermione winced, "but yellow roses are supposed to mean friendship, Draco."

He stared at her long and hard. "Well you were probably having a good old laugh at me, then, not knowing what flowers are supposed to mean," he said slowly. "See, in my world, flowers are just flowers―you give them to girls so the girls know you want to get in their knickers. That's how it goes. You've got to be the only woman in the world who gives a rat's about the _colour_."

Hermione bristled. "Do you actually have any notes or did you trick me here just to try and―and sleep with me?"

Draco scoffed, hoisting himself off the picnic blanket. "Yeah, I have your precious notes. They're the only reason you're here, anyway, aren't they?" And he strode off in the direction of the grand house, just visible through the trees.

Hermione told herself that she would only wait 10 minutes before leaving. But she _was_ starving, and with Draco gone, she was able to fully appreciate the location of the picnic, which appeared to be in the depths of a profoundly beautiful Garden of Eden. And fascinatingly enough, the roses changed color: after Draco left, the delicate yellow petals hand faded to pure white.

It was so _gorgeous_. Had it not been for Draco's otherwise ham-fisted attempts at romance (and his personality in general) she might have found the whole thing awfully romantic. She began sampling the cheeses, fruits and wines that were beckoning to her from the basket. Why not? Draco would probably throw them out anyway, might as well see to it they're enjoyed…

She was just sneaking into the basket to start on a ripe-looking pomegranate when she noticed the roses changing again. She thought initially they were changing back to yellow, and Draco was returning, but the soft white petals deepened into a rich, creamy pink.

And about ten seconds after, Lucius Malfoy rounded the corner and stood in front of her.

Hermione's knee-jerk reaction was to scream and run away. She had _not_ braced herself to see Malfoy Sr., bigot, terrorist, Death Eater exemplar come waltzing out of the rose bushes like some nightmare breaking into a good dream. Thankfully, she only flinched and jumped up onto her knees, and her expression must've been one of near-terror because Malfoy looked a little startled, too.

Then he raised an eyebrow. "Miss Granger," he purred silkily (the fine hairs seemed to raise on her body at the sound of his voice, after so many years). "No need to be afraid. I'm quite harmless."

She wanted to scoff. _Harmless, my arse…_ "Not afraid, Mr. Malfoy," she responded, using her strongest, most stately voice. "I hadn't expected to see you. You only startled me."

That eyebrow was still arched. "Although it pains me to point out the obvious… I do live here, Miss Granger. And these are my gardens." He took a step forward, and Hermione, noticing what a vulnerable position she was in (kneeling in front of him) made to get to her feet; Malfoy stopped and raised a steadying hand. "No need to disturb yourself on my part. I only wanted to inform you that my degenerate son has left the premises. From what I was able to gather from his ranting, he does not intend to return here today."

Hermione felt her blood boil. Without thinking she snarled, "Typical! Just typical! They can't get up your skirt so they abandon you in a garden!"

Lucius cocked his head. "I'm unfamiliar with the cliché, but come to think of it, there should be one." He reached into his inner robes (Hermione flinched) and drew out a stack of mishandled papers. "By the by, Draco did leave these behind. I do not believe it was his design to give them to you, ah… at this stage, however I don't believe you'll leave my garden unless you have them. So I've brought them out to you."

He extended them out to her and she took them, careful not to touch him as she did so. Eagerly she rifled over the pages, only to groan and bury her face in her palms.

"Did I bring the wrong ones?" Malfoy was closer now, trying to peer over her shoulder.

She shook her head without lifting it. "No… Dr. Civoditch, our advanced transfiguration professor, is from the Ukraine and he takes down all of his notes in Ukrainian, and Draco can read it so he took all of these down as-is without using a translation quill and was probably thinking he could prolong this"―she waved her hands around―" _thing_ by translating for me. Ugh! _Typical!"_

The more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed that that had been Draco's eventual plan. Translation magic worked best preemptively; attempting to translate something that has already been written was a tricky, imprecise business. Draco would have banked on her needing his help with it. Conniving, low-handed, sneaky little ferret…

"I was the one who tutored Draco in foreign language. I'm fluent in Ukrainian. Perhaps I can be of some assistance."

Hermione started and glanced back over her shoulder at Malfoy Sr. In her fury she'd forgotten he was still standing over her; their gazes met, and suddenly Hermione found herself looking at him. Properly. She realized before she'd only ever skimmed―out of fear and self-preservation, she told herself. It had always been very difficult to look _directly_ at him, frightening almost. She was beginning to suspect why.

Lucius Malfoy was _hot_. Very. Hermione felt a little sorry for Draco, having to live up to a man like this and falling just short. Objectively there were countless women who found Draco handsome, but Lucius was unconventionally so. It was _carnal_ , the level of attractiveness he possessed. Very… sexy, for lack of a better word (her arsenal was running low).

And these were all such wildly inappropriate thoughts. Malfoy was twice her age, terribly intimidating and he was standing there offering to help undo the mess his son had just made, and there she was, _ogling_ him.

And she'd been ogling far too long now.

Malfoy was watching her back. The faintest of smiles crept onto his perfect, not-too-full lips; she saw his glittering gray eyes dart at the roses, which were now a very opulent coral pink.

"Can I join you?"

The question came out of nowhere, and Malfoy's tone had changed considerably. Before he had been all breezy cordiality. Now… the low thrum of his words were doing something to her, something she imagined very similar to the veela's dance.

 _He just wants to help me with the translation to get me off his lawn,_ she told herself, her heart fluttering in her chest as she tried valiantly to look unaffected by the proceedings. _He's probably annoyed at Draco's behavior and wants to put things right in order to get me out of his hair._ (She glanced at his hair, loose and tumbling down his back and over his shoulders like thick silken cream.) _I'm not attracted to him, he knows I'm not attracted to him, I'm just accepting this help and nothing is going to happen, he's got no interest in me whatsoever, and vice versa, this is purely academic, and that's that._

"Certainly," Hermione choked a little. "I'd really appreciate that, thank you Mr. Malfoy."

And that was how Hermione Granger and Lucius Malfoy came to be sitting on the same picnic blanket.

Hermione's heart was going a million beats a minute, and the worst part was, she knew it wasn't out of fear. Lucius did not act like Draco: he did not sit too close; he did not attempt to flirt with her or touch her; in fact, he went straight to work helping her with the notes.

Pulling his wand from his inner-pocket, Lucius transfigured a few flowers into a writing set which he then presented to her, then set Draco's notes down in-between them, weighing the corners with small stones, and (after checking to be sure Hermione was ready) set right to work helping her copy out the translation, beginning with the first line and proceeding clearly and concisely through the next paragraph.

 _Why_ that was so much more attractive, she couldn't say.

As they worked, Lucius poured himself some wine, offering Hermione a glass with a slight tease, "A family vintage, Miss Granger, and you know we're known for our wine… look―only 12% poison in this one." She ended up taking a glass, and as they went on working, they also idly raided the picnic basket. Hermione didn't know it, but the truth was, she was on a picnic with Lucius Malfoy. And she was enjoying herself.

"You know," Hermione chewed thoughtfully on a square of hard sharp cheese, following it up with a few grapes, "I would've never thought Draco liked this sort of stuff. Cheeses and wines and―well―picnics."

Lucius stared straight ahead, though the slight smile on his mouth gave him away. If Hermione had been with anyone else, she would've swatted them for withholding information, but with Lucius, her body moved on its own accord, and she found herself brushing a hand down his arm in what was an unmistakably, horrifically flirty gesture. _How_ she didn't botch it, she'd never know.

"Don't tell me," she said, and her voice was bizarre, not like itself at all, "he wasn't the one who threw this together. He wasn't even the one who had the idea of a picnic in the garden. He probably went to someone he trusted and asked for some advice, and voilà…"

She dropped her hand and sat back, satisfied with having solved the great mystery. Twelve seconds later, she realized just exactly what she'd done, and the nerves that _should_ have stopped her came crashing back full force.

She needed to slow down on the wine.

Lucius seemed not to notice (though he most certainly _did_ because now he was a few inches closer, and his voice was doing the veela dance again). "Perhaps it happened like that," he purred, "perhaps not―either way, your lunch with my son ended rather poorly, and I believe no amount of ambiance would have prevented that. Some unions are not meant to be."

Hermione frowned at him. "But… you encouraged him. Or you helped him try to date me, at least."

"I helped him because he asked me to, and I want my son to pursue happiness," he said bluntly. "I did not think it was a good idea, but I've come to realize you cannot really warn anyone of their own blind spots. You must simply let them wander through and wait for them on the other side."

Hermione felt a prickle of defensiveness. "You didn't think it was a good idea? Why? Because of my blood status?"

Lucius sighed and rolled his shoulders, as if he had been preparing for those very words the moment he walked into the garden. "No, Miss Granger, not because of any blood status nonsense. I have suffered enough for my crimes during the War and for my ignorance to be afforded some grace where those subjects are concerned. No… I do not believe you and Draco are compatible. Not from what he's told me about you, anyway."

What started as a prickle of annoyance became a fiery hellstorm. "Oh?" Hermione said, trying and failing to sound casual as she examined a Calabrese olive, "So he said some things about me that made you realize I wouldn't be a good match, did he?"

He surprised her by laughing―a disarmingly beautiful noise that had Hermione staring at him again. "You are so _fierce_ ," he said, looking at her with a strange, almost proud expression. "Miss Granger, my son told me you are a serious intellectual who tends to be argumentative and often states what needs to be said without sparing feelings. You are intensely compassionate, you worship the concept of fairness and you have a cat." He eyed her steadily. "Let me just say, Draco hates cats. And that is the simplest of the incompatibilities I see."

Hermione sat there, dumbfounded. Draco must have discussed her quite often at home, for Lucius to know so much about her. More interesting than that, Lucius had _remembered_ these things.

Why?

Laughing humorlessly, Hermione brushed a hand across her forehead. "Well, with a résumé like that, who _would_ I be compatible with?"

"There are plenty of men who would be very interested in trying to soften you, my dear. Look for one who is self-possessed enough not to." Lucius did not allow a moment for those words to sink in; he sat a little straighter on the blanket and went on crisply, "Shall we finish this translation, Miss Granger?"

The last few pages of the notes seemed to crawl by. She couldn't focus. All she could feel was the shape of Lucius, incredibly close by; all she could hear was the timbre of his voice, thrumming like viola strings in her chest, and trying to understand the words became impossible.

She glanced up at the nearest rosebush. The pink petals were as dark and sensuous as ever. _Coral pink_ , she thought to herself. _Desire_.

Were they for him? Or for her?

Or both?

* * *

"There we are," Lucius straightened the parchment up and, tapping it with his wand, tied it into a neat stack. "Interesting subject matter. Unfortunately my formal education ended with my NEWTs, so most of this is very new to me." He extended the parchment to Hermione, who was much closer than he realized; she must've crept over when he wasn't looking. She looked absolutely terrified, but when their eyes locked he saw a steel in her that made him realize she'd come to this decision some time ago.

"Thank you," she said, her voice reduced to a whisper. She took the parchment and set it aside without breaking eye contact. Lucius watched her calmly. She wanted him; the roses had told him that much, but she was also frightened of him. And that was not a simple thing to move past.

So, slowly and deliberately, Lucius moved in close to her, allowing her to adjust to his proximity before he moved an arm around her. She juddered against him as if she were freezing, even though it was a beautiful day and her light summer dress had sufficed until this point. But she didn't move away.

* * *

He smelled so, incredibly good. Though she felt like a terrified rabbit, she allowed herself to nuzzle into him a little bit. She could scarcely breathe but she did her best, because under this man's expensive cologne was the most delicious masculine scent she'd ever smelled.

In the back of her mind―the part she was waging violent war to keep quiet―she questioned her own sanity, or lack thereof, sitting there at a picnic with Lucius-fucking-Malfoy all bundled up against him like some doe-eyed schoolgirl. _How_ was she in this situation? Better yet, how was he permitting this? He must have lost his mind, too, because clearly he'd forgotten every scruple he'd ever had to be cuddling with a muggleborn.

Maybe the flowers were hallucinogenic and she was _really_ sitting there by herself, cuddling with a butterfly bush. A very warm, very solid butterfly bush.

"Thank you," she rasped out again, because she felt she'd die without some confirmation that this was real, "for helping me."

Lucius' response made her stomach do a cartwheel. "My pleasure." He reached down, slid a finger along the edge of her jawbone, hooked it under her chin (her heart began to kick like a rabbit and she felt sick with nerves), lifted her face and kissed her.

Hermione was not a fan of kissing, likely due to her aversion to having gobs of spit in her mouth. On the odd occasion that that _didn't_ happen, it could be interesting, but she had never kissed for hours on end because she found it fun.

Lucius made her want to never stop.

Hermione realized there could be such a thing as a gracious kisser. Lucius was… almost inquisitive with this first intimate move, applying just the perfect amount of pressure before withdrawing again to suck lightly on her bottom lip, giving her the gentlest taste of teeth, and then going back to pressing his lovely pout back over the center. His tongue wasn't forcing itself all over her mouth―in fact it remained strictly on the other side of her teeth, occasionally stroking lightly at the rim of her bottom lip, the pointed tip darting to stroke fleetingly against her own.

It was all very… masterful. Merlin, she could feel herself melt into him, her stomach was doing acrobatics and lower down, blood was rushing to her core in white-hot waves. They hadn't been snogging for longer than a few minutes before she was panting against his lips, grappling onto his shoulders and trying to deepen the kiss like some wild animal in heat.

She nipped his lip and he growled, a large hand coming up suddenly to tangle in her hair, holding her steady and then―in a dizzying turn of events―yanking her into his lap. Her brain was so scrambled up with lust at this point that it didn't even faze her that she was straddling Lucius Malfoy, she just wanted _more_. His arms were all around her and she had buried both of her hands into his long cornsilk hair. She couldn't believe how soft it was: he must've been using some sort of shampoo that charmed away tangles because his hair parted neatly no matter how she raked her fingers through it.

Suddenly she became aware that he was pushing her away. She glanced down―worried perhaps she'd hurt him―but realized he was only undoing the buttons of his outer robes. The sudden image of a shirtless Lucius Malfoy made Hermione spring into action: flicking open the buttons of his waistcoat, then racing over the shirt beneath, until at last she could brush aside the layers and see him properly.

Another rush cascaded down the front of Hermione's body to pool in her core. He was _gorgeous_. Just the right amount of definition: his arms and pectorals were finely shaped and she followed the dusting of golden hair down to the ripples of his abdomen, none of it jarring. Of course a man as vain as Lucius would keep himself on top form. And Hermione had to admit, compared to some of the things he had done in the past, vanity wasn't the worst vice to indulge.

Lucius was watching her ogle him (that seemed to be happening quite frequently today) and her expression was apparently pleasing to him, because he brought her in, now shirtless, for another prolonged kiss. She ran her hands everywhere over his velveteen skin, moaning audibly now, and whenever she found a sensitive spot she took note of his slight gasp and committed it to memory. It was, after all, desperately important information.

Before she knew it the bodice of her dress was loose, and Lucius was smiling wolfishly up at her. He'd distracted her with his mouth and behind her back (quite literally) he'd undone her dress. She shot him a dirty look but didn't resist as he pulled the garment up over her head, leaving her almost completely naked aside from her bra, her lacy underwear, stockings and kitten heels.

This ensemble seemed to please him immensely. He looked her over a few times, the tip of his tongue sliding along the edges of his teeth, and the look in his eye was more predatory than anything. He looked as if he wanted to eat her.

"Stand."

Hermione blinked, then stood up, not quite sure where he was going with this. Lucius insinuated himself between her legs and, reaching up, twined his fingers around her knickers and pulled them down. There was a moment of sharp fear as he did so: few people had ever seen her _there_ , it wasn't something she flashed around and a jab of self-consciousness was expected. But her lust had reached a point now that she didn't hesitate long: she grabbed the other side of her knickers and helped him pull them down low enough so that she could step out and toss them aside. Then, with his hands spanning the ridges of her naked hips, he looked up at her―eyes darting from her face to her aching pussy―and said, "Sit on me."

Hermione felt yet another rush of heat. "Sit―?"

"On me, yes," Lucius panted. His eyes were so blown out they appeared gunmetal gray; a flush suffused his porcelain skin. He was serious. And he didn't really wait for her cooperation: holding her hips, he guided them down until he was lying on his back on the picnic blanket and she was hovering above him, nearly whining in anticipation.

He leaned up, and the first contact of his mouth to her cunt nearly made her howl. In this, too, he was good: he allowed her to relax into his own exquisite brand of cunnilingus, licking deeply here and then fluttering his tongue over her wanting clit, then placing a deep lick into her slick entrance, and on and on until before she realized it she was not only sitting on him, she was grinding against his mouth.

She wondered if he'd allow himself to suffocate, the expression of concentration on his face was so intense. Every so often those gunmetal eyes would flash open and he'd look up at her with such stark lust she could feel herself getting wetter against him.

It might have been five minutes, or perhaps an hour, or perhaps two years, Hermione couldn't tell―but all of the delicious sensations in her groin began to coalesce to a point, and she began to buck and struggle against Lucius' hold on her. He responded by holding tighter and attacking her with more flickering around her clit, which ramped up her pleasure to a heart-stopping peak and with every muscle in her body primed and thrumming with white-hot energy she wondered for a moment if this was going to hurt―

 _"Oh god oh Merlin oh Lucius-fucking-Malfoy!"_

As the orgasm seized her Hermione struggled mindlessly against the strong hands holding her against that torturous mouth, which continued to send her over and over that same harrowing edge, and she kept screaming nonsense until at last he released her and she collapsed beside him on the picnic blanket. It was like she had been destroyed and remade all in one.

Beside her, there was sudden, quiet laughter. Blearily she looked over to see Lucius daubing his soaking face with a cloth napkin and grinning to himself. Seeing her watching him with a questioning look, he explained: "God, Merlin, and Lucius Fucking Malfoy," he chuckled. "The holy trinity of Hermione Granger's orgasms."

Hermione smiled, then laughed, covering her face with her hands. "Oh god, did I really say that?"

"Oh you said many things, my dear," Lucius purred, rolling over her; he leaned in slightly and placed a brief kiss to her lips between her hands. "And you'll say many more…"

Hermione felt a shiver of anticipation, uncovering her eyes―only to find that Lucius had gotten up and was standing there in his trousers, looking expectantly down at her. She felt another nervous twinge, knowing immediately what he wanted but having never done this so… _openly_ before. As a matter of fact, this encounter was the first she'd had _outdoors_ , all others being confined to a bedroom or a couch somewhere.

Never mind the inappropriateness of her partner.

Standing there watching her with those dark, wanton eyes in the middle of his own radiant garden, Hermione thought of Adam after the fall. She rather thought he, Lucius, had been more responsible for the direction things had gone. But then again, she certainly wasn't complaining.

* * *

The girl was irresistible. So communicative―it was as if he could read every one of her thoughts in her expression. Eager and nervous and _real_ , and terribly beautiful, but of course he'd known that for longer than he really cared to admit. And she had tasted sublime.

Lucius knew he had a predatory streak in him. There was something overwhelmingly erotic about a nervous young girl opening up to him―he enjoyed taking control of her and showing her pleasure she hadn't known existed. This dominance was, of course, not a predilection he bandied about, since plenty of people didn't understand it and would just as soon write him off as an abuser. Mind, he could be quite rough when he wanted to, but he never took interest in nonconsensual activities. His goal in the bedroom―almost more satisfying than the orgasm―was the feeling of someone handing themselves over to him completely. And that simply couldn't be attained without full consent.

He watched the girl push herself onto her knees and crawl over to him, pulling herself up his body and running her fingertips along the ridge of his belt. He wanted to tear the rest of her clothing off, but he restrained himself, waiting patiently as she removed the belt and undid the clasp of his trousers.

His cock had been painfully rigid since he'd asked to join her on the picnic blanket, and now it was finally free to sway out to her―her face betrayed a look of slight shock and admiration, and he drank it in, feeling himself go, if possible, even harder.

He wanted to shove her down and take her right then. He doubted she would protest, he knew after her previous empty orgasm her pussy was dying to be filled―but no, he needed to be _patient_. This was their first encounter. It was important to move steadily if he wanted to have any more with her.

And Merlin, did he want more… he hadn't even been inside her yet and he knew this would not be the last. He had mapped her pussy with his lips and tongue, claimed it carnally and now he felt he wouldn't be able to shake this desire with just one encounter.

So he allowed her to slowly reach out and take his heavy girth, explore it, massaging it from root to tip, get him increasingly frustrated, until at last, after what must have been centuries, she slid the head of him into her mouth and sucked.

 _Ah,_ he thought, massaging his fingertips into her rowdy curls, _there… now more… yesss, that's it, pet, take me in, pull me in deep… what a fine cocksucker you are…_

Lucius tended not to vocalize much, for the obvious reason that being called a 'cocksucker' tended to ruin the mood for the woman. The most he gave Hermione were gasps and low groans that she seemed to take specific direction from, because soon enough she was hitting all of the right spots and doing splendid things with her tongue that had him writhing in his shoes. She made Lucius wish he'd been lying down for this, his knees were starting to tremble and it was a serious thought in his head to simply come without fucking her properly.

But of course, that simply wouldn't do.

* * *

Hermione felt Lucius move suddenly, grabbing hold of her shoulders and pushing her unceremoniously back off of his throbbing length. She looked up at him uncomprehendingly as he shed the rest of his clothing and stood naked before her, like some ivory god. Then, still without speaking, he laid down once again on the picnic blanket directly beside her and took hold of her hips, dragging her over to straddle him once again―only this time, instead of her core hovering over his face, it hovered over the long thick rod of his member, still wet from her attentions.

Hermione gulped. He wanted her to ride him. She'd never been on top before, as absurd as that sounded―all of her other sexual encounters proceeded with a man over her. But looking down into his calm, sure face, and at the needy cock twitching between his legs, she realized the worst that could happen is he'd switch positions. And it was good to try new things, after all.

So she adjusted herself slightly over him, took hold of his cock and―her eyes on his―guided their bodies together. Lucius' eyes rolled back in his head and Hermione found it difficult herself to focus her vision: he was so thick that the slow intrusion of him might have been painful had she not been so wet. After more shifting and moaning and rolling of hips and eyes, their bodies were finally flush.

Hermione didn't allow much time for adjusting: fueled by the intense point of desire at their joining, she began to roll her hips on him immediately, a little sloppily at first, but as Lucius reached up and guided her hips and held her steady, she began to move with more confidence. She quickly discovered that leaning back slightly seemed to add to the pleasure, and every so often, Lucius would reach in and begin massaging around her clit to heighten the bliss.

It wasn't long before Hermione realized she was going to come again. She was at once desperate for the building of sweet tension, and somewhat upset that the joyride was not going to last forever. She could tell that Lucius himself was getting close, but controlling himself: a glow of sweat had appeared over his skin, and when he bucked up into her, it was becoming more sharp and uneven.

Hermione seemed to crash into her orgasm without warning. It hit her in a full-body spasm; she did not have the ability to pray to her trinity this time, only keen and writhe and roll on Lucius' thick cock until he, too, could last no longer, and gave in to his own orgasm, bucking up into her as his cock jumped inside her, filling her until she dripped with hot come.

She collapsed on top of him, panting, and he wrapped his arms around her waist, stroking idle circles in the small of her back. It was several minutes before either of them was able to speak.

"That," Hermione said, "was the most insane thing I have ever done."

Lucius chuckled beneath her. "I wish I could say the same, my dear, but I think you will be pleased to know that this was certainly one of my best sexual encounters."

She looked at him as if he'd confessed his true love to her. "Honestly?"

He tilted his head at her. "I would not have said it if I hadn't mean it. You have the most perfect pussy." Hermione blushed scarlet, and he smiled, leaning in for a languid kiss. When he drew back the blush was still there, but now she was smiling.

"Well… I don't have to go back to campus until tomorrow…" Hermione looked around at the destroyed picnic. It had been well-enjoyed, at least. "What… do you want to do now?"

Lucius tilted his head thoughtfully. "It's Tuesday afternoon, it's nearly 31°C out, and not far from here there is a large outdoor pool whose owner does not enforce a dress code." He turned to Hermione, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Would you like to do the next most insane thing you've ever done, my dear?"

* * *

 **A/N:** Well this is my first one-shot! Please tell me what you think! :)


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